


Lazy Sunday

by Sioux



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-23
Updated: 2012-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-31 15:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sioux/pseuds/Sioux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John decides he wants a lazy Sunday just slobbing out with his friend.  A continuation of Pure and Simple but can be read as a standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lazy Sunday

Lazy Sunday  
By Sioux

Thanks to the Small Faces for the title.  
This occurs after the events in Pure and Simple but can be read as a stand alone.

 

The strains of a violin playing softly gradually brought him to full consciousness. Unless he was very much mistaken the tune was Canon by Pachelbel, one of his favourite pieces. He closed his eyes again snuggling down under the duvet to enjoy the music.

His subconscious gave him the impression Sherlock had been playing for a while now. However, the day being Sunday and the fact they’d solved their latest case the previous afternoon John had been expecting to be awoken by the unmistakable sounds of a very bored Sherlock rampaging through the flat not a most enjoyable concert although given what had happened the previous evening it perhaps wasn’t as surprising as it should be.

He made no move to get out of bed for another forty-five minutes by which point Sherlock had segued into Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Winter, Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, Elgar’s Enigma followed by a piece John couldn’t, at first, place but he knew he liked it. It was joyful and made him imagine that whatever had happened things would turn out well in the end. He lay puzzling over it for a few minutes before laughing out loud when he had the answer. For someone who purportedly didn’t know much in the way of popular culture he was making a mighty fine job of playing ‘Fawkes the Pheonix’ from one of the Harry Potter films.

John rolled painfully out of bed, pulled the bedclothes as straight and tidy as he could manage before grabbing his dressing gown and limping slowly through to the lounge, holding on to the walls on the way.

Sherlock was perambulating around the room his eyes half-closed whilst still playing. He flashed John a somewhat lopsided smile around his split cheek and black eye when he appeared in the doorway, which John returned before going into the immaculately tidy kitchen to put the kettle on.

The strains of ‘You Only Live Twice’ accompanied the tea brewing in the pot. John wasn’t oblivious to the fact a lot of the pieces Sherlock had played this morning were ones to which he was partial.

He carefully placed teapot, cups, milk, sugar and spoons on a tray and carried it all to the coffee table then settled himself carefully down on the sofa after pouring out the tea and adding milk and sugar as they both liked it. He propped his sprained ankle on a cushion on the nearer end of the coffee table and leaned back on two more cushions which had been deliberately placed to support his back and shoulder.

He needed to change the bandage on his ankle, it had slackened during the night as he slept but first he intended to enjoy his tea, the music and the sight of his friend wandering around the flat, not necessarily in that order.

John had finished his second cup before Sherlock put down his bow.

‘Thank you,’ Sherlock said gravely, picking up the cup of almost cold tea and draining it. He then walked the length of the small table, hopped off the end and disappeared into the bathroom emerging a few seconds later with the first aid kit.

John made no objection when Sherlock sat on the table and put his injured ankle in his lap before taking off the bandage.

‘What’s the prognosis, Doctor?’ John asked.

‘Still swollen and hot to the touch. But I think you’re right, it’s sprained not broken. How does it feel?’

John wrinkled his nose slightly. It was painful but keeping it elevated for the rest of the day and taking a couple of painkillers would see to that.

Almost as if he’s spoken aloud Sherlock picked up a packet of paracetamol and a packet of co-codamol. John pointed to the co-codamol. Sherlock smiled saying,

‘Good choice, although you get a better effect if the dosage of codeine is higher.’

‘I’ll ignore that,’ John replied loftily taking the cool tea Sherlock poured into his cup to wash them down. 

He watched approvingly as Sherlock re-dressed his ankle. He was a more than competent first-aider when he chose to exert himself.

‘Now,’ John said shuffling forward on the sofa. ‘Give me a hand and we can get lunch started.’

Sherlock pulled a face but did as he was asked.

John grinned inwardly. All this compliance! If he’d known earlier how easy it was to manipulate his flat-mate into being reasonable he would have done it years ago.

It didn’t take long at all to get the vegetables prepped and ready to go – the frozen peas were nicely defrosted now – and the chicken seasoned and in the oven. When John requested some toast and jam to keep body and soul together before lunch was ready he could see Sherlock’s shoulders tense up under his dressing gown but he dutifully got out the bread and put it in the toaster then placed butter and jam on the table. He even refilled the kettle and made more tea, as an unlooked for extra. Although Sherlock wasn’t pleased to be making a light breakfast it didn’t prevent him wolfing down several slices of toast when it was ready.

‘You should eat more and on a regular basis,’ John told him.

‘That would slow me down too much,’ he replied. ‘Do you need anything else?’

‘No,’ John said, shaking out the first of the Sunday newspapers. ‘You can got and get your shower now.

‘Thank you,’ Sherlock replied giving John a hard stare before turning and ambling away to the bathroom.

John smiled and leisurely crunched the last piece of toast, washing it down with a cuppa which wasn’t too bad.

After his shower Sherlock assisted John with his ablutions, which wasn’t as awkward as it could have been. He even bathed his, by now, Technicolor back and shoulder with cold witch hazel then he helped him into general lounging clothes; a large t-shirt, oversized sweater and loose pants, all of which he’d fetched from John’s room for him. He’d even turned his own bedroom into John’s temporary bedroom as managing the stairs was out of the question.

After lunch had been eaten, pots washed and cleared away John hobbled back to the sofa. Without asking Sherlock doled out more painkillers then pulled John against his side letting the other man use him as a living cushion whilst he updated his blog with the television on as background. Beside him Sherlock alternately used his mobile phone and read from his own laptop. About an hour later John had nodded off over his keyboard so Sherlock put his long arms to good use and twitched the machine away putting it on the coffee table. Gently he turned John so he was laying down, his head on Sherlock’s knee. John snuffled without waking. The ghost of a smile graced Sherlock’s face. John hadn’t realised the second lot of painkillers weren’t the same dosage as the ones he’d taken earlier. 

Guiltily he brushed his hand over John’s back. Even through two layers of clothes he could feel the heat radiating from the bruises. Bringing his hand up, he softly examined the lump on the back of John’s skull then stopped when he winced in his sleep. So instead he put aside his own laptop and settled for watching his friend sleep.

He’d missed seeing his face whilst hunting down and destroying Moriaty’s organisation. He’d missed hearing his voice and missed knowing his solid, reliable presence was there at his back. The John shaped hole in his life had been the cause of a number of sleepless nights and forlorn days.

John wriggled slightly turning onto his back, his left hand sliding down, about to roll off the sofa until Sherlock hauled it back by his sleeve. Pale pink lines along the back of his hand were the only remaining signs of Cuddle’s unwanted attention. Softly he ran the pad of his thumb over the raised scar tissue. He still felt sick when he remembered seeing the fresh scratches and thinking Kadnikov had poisoned him with the knife blade.

Since that point they’d been tip toeing around one another neither really speaking his mind. John still mired in layers of emotional pain and anger, Sherlock countering with unexpressed guilt and remorse.

They’d presented a united front to everyone else though; the press, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly even Mycroft. It was only behind closed doors that the chasms in their relationship showed.

Or rather they had done, until last night. He allowed himself a small smile being careful not to pull the split over his cheek. His eye on the same side he knew was as colourful as John’s back.

John was becoming restive, his breathing pattern changing. Sherlock leaned forward slightly, enough to see John’s eyes were moving rapidly under his eyelids. Deftly Sherlock reversed the hold on John’s hand and was rewarded a couple of seconds later by John gripping his fingers like a lifeline. At the same time Sherlock began stroking his hair, slowly and gently, taking care not to go near the sore lump. In a very short space of time John returned to his former calm and restful sleep.

Congratulating himself Sherlock eased his long body into a more comfortable position, leaning his head on the sofa back without disturbing John. 

Letting John know, by touch, that Sherlock was there had calmed him the night before last too. Not that John knew why he’d had a quiet night as Sherlock wasn’t too sure John would be pleased with the knowledge he’d crept into his bedroom and watched his best friend relive his pain in his nightmares. Unable to bear the sight any longer he’d reached out and held onto the other man’s hands expecting John to wake and possibly react like the soldier he had been but he hadn’t. He’d hung onto his hands, his face smoothing out, his breathing returning to that of sleep.

Sherlock had watched and wondered just how many times this had happened to John. How many broken nights of gut churning anxiety and fear had he sentence him to, giving only in his defence the lofty ideals of keeping him safe and ignorant. The slight pain from his recent injury didn’t go very far in assuaging his culpability.

He’d sat with John until the very early hours of the morning then sneaked away like a thief in the night, setting up an experiment on the kitchen table which involved the action of various oils on latex.

When Lestrade had texted with news of a case early on Saturday morning they’d jumped up and left the flat, not returning until the evening. 

They’d both been in a good mood after solving the case quite easily. John had bounded upstairs and into the kitchen to put the kettle on. The experiment Sherlock had left on the table had yielded some interesting data with the result that various oils had been dumped on the table then, as is the way with gravity, dripped all over the floor. John had put his foot down and skidded, going over very heavily on his ankle, falling against the table, which shifted everything on there, and banging the back of his head hard enough to see stars. He hadn’t been knocked unconscious but he had been stunned. He tried to get to his feet suddenly which on the slippery surface was a very bad idea and had fallen backwards into the kitchen units causing heavy bruising to his back and shoulders not to mention getting covered in various types of oil.

Sherlock had crept, lightly as a cat, across the lethal floor saying, 

‘You may have ruined that experiment!’

John had responded in a rather physical manner, punching Sherlock and sending him skidding across the kitchen floor in the direction of the lounge. He’d then followed up his impressive right hook by a long and heartfelt tirade on the subject of Sherlock’s childishness, selfish ways and total insensitivity. 

After a couple of false starts, being unable, initially, to interrupt John long enough to get a word in edgewise, Sherlock had gotten to his hands and knees and crawled back into the kitchen to come nose to nose with John who was in the same position. John, by this point, was red in the face and well beyond the experiment.

‘Why do you think you know best for everyone? Who do you think you are? What gives you the right to decide what happens to other people? To me? You made me watch, Sherlock. You made me watch you die! Why? Why the fuck did you make me watch?’

‘Why? Because I couldn’t let Moriaty get his hands on you! I did it because you’re my weakness, John. You’re the chink in my armour. You wormed your way into my life, made me care, made me sentimental. Me! Killing you would have finished me. I made you watch because they had to believe what you believed. I did it because I love you!’ Sherlock shouted at the top of his voice.

The sounds of their agitated breathing whistled through the sudden deathly silence as both men glared at each other from a distance of three inches. 

After a pause of several minutes during which time they relaxed their aggressive stance, John cleared his throat then opened and closed his mouth several times without speaking. 

Sherlock’s face had gone rather pink, with a streak of red from where the skin had split over his cheek and his left eye had begun to swell. He kept stealing glances out of the corner of his eye wondering if John was going to be so uncomfortable with his unintentional declaration that he may not want to stay.

At the sound of John clearing his throat again he looked over.

‘I never thought you would say that out loud. Did you mean it?’

Sherlock briefly considered lying then dismissed the impulse. If John wanted to leave because of Sherlock’s emotional attachment it would break his heart but he knew that he’d be safe, whatever he wanted to do with the rest of his life. He nodded keeping his eyes on John’s face.

John, his face soft and alight with affection, said, ‘Come here.’

Sherlock decided to crawl; it would save on further injury. They flowed into each other’s arms and held on.

‘That wasn’t exactly news to me, you know,’ John said.

Sherlock stayed silent for a time, waiting.

John continued, ‘I knew. When you were on the roof at Barts. I knew when…just before…’ he stopped and took a deep breath then settled on saying, ‘Before you threw your phone onto the roof.’

Sherlock sighed and seemed to suddenly go completely boneless as he rested his cheek against the top of John’s head and hugged him hard trying to wrap him completely in his presence.

‘I wondered if… I hoped you’d understood,’ he whispered.

John smiled into the warm shirt and jacket against his cheek.

‘I got it, eventually.’

‘Eventually,’ Sherlock repeated.

‘Didn’t think I’d get the chance to tell you it’s mutual though. You know for a pair of intelligent men it’s taken us a long time to reach the conclusion everyone else seems to have reached.’

‘No, it hasn’t,’ Sherlock corrected him. ‘It’s just taken you a long time to see it.’

‘Thank you! I suppose you got it immediately.’

‘Of course!’

‘Modesty. Ever your besetting sin,’ John said, sarcasm lacing every word.

For a few moments silence descended again before Sherlock asked quietly,

‘Are we alright again now?’

John swallowed before replying, 

‘I think we’re getting there.’ He swallowed again and licked his lips. ‘If you ever have to do anything like that again, take me with you,’ John whispered, increasing the pressure of his arms around Sherlock’s skinny body. ‘Don’t leave me behind.’

‘I’ll try. John, if there had been any other way...’

‘Promise me?’

‘I promise,’ Sherlock replied just as softly, rocking them both in a rhythm only he could hear.

John relaxed against him at the affirmation. Despite being covered in oil and in quite a severe amount of pain John was finding the experience of being held and rocked like this very soothing for mind, body and soul. He shifted, uncomfortable, but didn’t want to let go.

‘You know when you said…’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock replied, waiting with trepidation for what John would say next.

‘You didn’t mean you fancy me, did you?’

Sherlock laughed. ‘No John, I don’t want to take you to bed,’ he said.

‘Thank God for that,’ John replied with a heartfelt sigh. ‘I love you more than life itself, but I don’t want to do that with you!’

Sherlock chuckled and held him tighter then asked, ‘Why, what’s wrong with me?’

‘You’re not the slightest bit interested in sex, for a start,’ John replied acerbically.

‘Oh, you noticed!’ 

A reply which earned him a slap on the arm and another few minutes of the full body hug in which they were indulging.

‘It’s Sunday tomorrow,’ John said.

‘Sunday usually follows Saturday,’ Sherlock replied. 

John gave him a sharp squeeze which made his ribs creak.

‘Let’s just have a really lazy Sunday. Get up late, have a relaxed lunch, watch dire Sunday afternoon tele and slob out, just us. And you be reasonable all day,’ he said.

‘And why should I be reasonable all day?’ Sherlock countered.

‘Because you owe me that much at least, plus …’ he moved carefully and looked down. 

‘Plus what?’ Sherlock asked, not willing to let him move too far away.

‘I think I’ve broken my ankle slipping on your bloody messy experiment.’

They both looked down at John’s rapidly ballooning left ankle.

 

John had refused to let Sherlock call an ambulance and had refused to go to hospital via cab before he’d cleaned himself up. He’d also insisted that Sherlock clean up all the mess in the kitchen before anyone else broke bones.

The clean-up took quite a while, which John left to Sherlock without even a suspicion of feeling guilty whilst he stripped off his clothes and put them in a bin bag for washing later. 

Sherlock had decided cleaning the kitchen would be easier sans clothing too so by the time John had washed the oil from his hair and skin and crawled back to the lounge in a dressing gown he was greeted by the sight of Sherlock wielding Mrs Hudson’s steam floor mop without a stitch on, which set him off laughing again. Sherlock threw a bag of frozen peas at him to put on his ankle whilst he finished up then went to wash himself.

‘I’ll get you some clothes then we can get a cab to A&E,’ Sherlock said, as he went past John, clouds of steam billowing out and following him from the bathroom.

‘No,’ John said.

‘Your ankle’s broken, it needs setting.’

‘Have you ever been to A&E on a Saturday night? I’ll strap it up and see what it feels like tomorrow. Anyway I think it may be just a bad sprain not a break.’

Sherlock looked at him with narrowed eyes.

‘Does that mean I still have to be reasonable all day tomorrow?’ 

He ducked as a cushion flew in his direction.

 

Sometime later after John had awoken from his nap and was once more watching T.V. they heard a long peel on the bell downstairs then the sound of the door opening, quick footsteps on the stairs and Lestrade was pushing open the door to the flat.

‘What the bloody hell happened to you two?’ he asked, taking in the bandages and bruises.

John and Sherlock looked at each other then said in unison,

‘He did!’

Lestrade had bought a bottle of whiskey with him, of which they all partook, John sparingly, whilst giving the DI the edited highlights of the evening before, Lestrade laughing appreciatively. In turn Lestrade gave them the final results on the case from the day before.

After Lestrade had bade them goodnight John decided to rest his ankle in bed and read his book. He washed and limped through the lounge saying as he did so,

‘I really enjoyed today, thanks Sherlock.’

‘You’re welcome, John,’ he replied, briefly lifting his eyes from his mobile phone.

Somehow half an hour later John wasn’t really surprised when Sherlock bounced into the bedroom, technically Sherlock’s own bedroom, threw himself on the other side of the bed and continued to read his book as if it was the most normal thing in the world. John smiled but said nothing.

As the clock ticked over at midnight, Sherlock lowered his book and looked at John. 

‘John…’

Without lifting his head from the page John said,

‘Don’t you dare!’

‘But I’m bored!’


End file.
